Let Them Eat Cake
by Ani-maniac494
Summary: As a Capitol photographer, Aemilia had always dreaded her yearly trip to District Twelve, but there was one bright spot - a certain bakery. She never imagined that the Reaping for 74th annual Hunger Games would change that. After all, why would it?


Spoilers: Spoilers for the first Hunger Games movie and novel.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, but can I have Peeta? Please? *looks hopeful*

A/N: This is my first foray into the Hunger Games universe. :) I haven't actually read the books, only seen the movies, but I'm using some of the details I've learned about the books from various sources. If there are any inaccuracies, please let me know.

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace, and his many blessings.

I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!

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**Let Them Eat Cake**

District Twelve was always the same.

Gray, or some variation thereof. Color seemed like a foreign concept. Nearly everything was dull, drab, and covered with coal dust.

Aemilia hated it. She was a photographer, for goodness sake, with an eye for all things vibrant and beautiful. Being sent to District Twelve was practically tantamount to _torture_.

She'd made her distaste known - loudly and often - but her complaints had fallen on deaf ears. For the last five years without fail, her editor had sent her to District Twelve to cover the Reaping. (Apparently, Aemilia knew just where to position the camera so that the awful District looked just a little less run-down, and as far as her editor was concerned, that made her irreplaceable. Lucky her.)

This year had been eventful at least, with that girl volunteering and Abernathy taking a nose-dive off the stage.

Of course, the excitement had been short-lived, and she'd had to endure another two days - _two full days _\- in District Twelve, because Capitol personnel - except for those directly involved with the Games - weren't allowed to ride the same train as the Tributes. She and the other members of the media were forced to wait for the next available train instead.

A few unfortunate souls would have to stay for the duration of the Games, but thankfully, she wasn't one of them. (She would probably be sent back if Twelve actually managed to produce a Victor, but the odds of that were ridiculously low). She'd passed most of her time in the District shut up in a small, rented room in Town, sorting through the shots she'd taken during the Reaping, sending the best to her editor.

Now, just a few hours from her departure, she'd decided it was a good time to carry out her own private tradition - the only highlight of her trip, as far as she was concerned.

A visit to the bakery.

She'd come across the bakery the first year of her assignment, shocked to find anything of beauty in District Twelve. But the cakes at the bakery _were_ beautiful. The designs were intricate but never overdone, works of art made from sugar. And, as it turned out, they were delicious as well.

She'd made a point to purchase something from the bakery every year since.

She didn't normally wait this long - she usually tried to buy something right after the Reaping to help her stomach the rest of her stay - but this time the bakery had been closed, which had seemed strange. They'd never been closed before.

Well, she supposed, one couldn't explain the whims of District people and it was better not to try. Besides, even if she'd had to wait for her cake, at least now she would have something to enjoy on the train.

The bell on the bakery door jingled as she stepped inside, and she frowned, looking around in surprise. The shelves were practically bare. She'd never seen the place in such a state. She glanced up at the sound of someone clearing their throat and found a middle-aged man watching her. He was stocky, with graying blond hair, and he wore a faded white apron over a dull blue shirt and brown trousers.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

He was the baker, she recalled. He'd offered her his first name once but she couldn't remember it now, and she'd forgotten to check the name on the sign before she entered, so it was a struggle to remember his surname as well. M…something. With an L and a K at the end. Aemilia frowned briefly. Oh, she'd always been terrible with names, especially the odd ones used in the Districts, but she was sure she knew this one…

Meadowlark! Yes, that was it. Meadowlark.

"You certainly can help me," she answered at last, smiling warmly. "I'd like to purchase one of your cakes."

She walked towards the counter where he stood, but her smile almost slipped as she moved closer and realized just how pale the poor man looked. His eyes were red too, like he'd been crying. Was he ill? If he was, hopefully it wasn't catching.

"I see you've been quite popular," she added, waving at the empty shelves, trying to brush over the awkwardness.

He gave a wan smile of his own. "Yes, we've been busy. No one can change what happened," he swallowed thickly, "but they can guarantee we stay in business. Makes them feel like they're doing something, I guess."

Aemilia's eyebrows rose at the strange statement, but she didn't want to leave without that cake, so she nodded. "Of course, well, how very nice of everyone," she agreed with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. "Now, about that cake…" she prompted.

The baker rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Right. Sorry. I'm afraid we really don't have much left. I can make something for you as a special order, if you have time."

Aemilia sighed. "That would be lovely, but I'll be returning to the Capitol in just a few hours."

"Oh. Okay. Um…" He looked about for a moment, then hesitantly motioned at the display case by the window which still had a few small cakes inside of it. "Would one of those do?"

Aemilia stepped closer and examined the cakes critically. There was a white one with simple swirls of frosting marking the edge, but she made a face. That one was far too plain, not at all the quality she had come to expect. There was a strawberry one as well, with frosting dyed pink and two fresh strawberries nestled in the center of the design, but, hmm…no, that still wasn't what she wanted.

When her eyes landed on the final cake, however, she smiled. That was much better! The frosting had been dyed a lovely shade of green and a bouquet of flowers poured over the side, flowing gracefully to the base, the perfectly crafted red roses, white daisies, pink chrysanthemums, and purple violets offering a feast for the eyes.

"That green one, if you please," Aemilia said, pointing. "It's just exquisite!"

"Yes," the baker agreed softly, "it is."

Moving with a strange sort of slowness, Meadowlark stepped out from behind the counter and reached down to open the display case. He picked up the cake carefully, gripping the cake display stand with one hand and holding the domed glass lid with the other. He was equally as careful when he transferred the cake to a box - even pausing to stare at the cake for a long moment, as though he'd never see its like again. Then, he shut the cardboard lid and slid the cake towards her on the counter.

"How much will that be?" Aemilia wondered.

He told her the price and she reached into her purse, making a point to give him a few extra coins, telling him to keep the change. Such beautiful work deserved recognition.

"I come here every year, you know," she said as she accepted her receipt. "Every Reaping."

Meadowlark paused, studying her for a moment before nodding. "Yes, yes, that's right, I remember you."

Aemilia beamed at him. Well, of course he did! She couldn't imagine how grateful such a small District must be for Capitol patronage. "I'm sure I'll be back again next year too," she assured.

The baker winced. "I appreciate that, but I…I don't think we'll have anything you'll be interested in."

Aemilia frowned. "What do you mean?"

"My…my youngest son…he's the one who's always decorated the cakes you've bought from us."

"Really? That's fascinating. How old is he?"

Meadowlark made a sort of choking sound. "Sixteen."

"Delightful! I'd love to meet him."

The baker's eyes dropped to the counter, and when he spoke again, it was impossible to miss the catch in his voice. "That…that won't be possible."

"Why ever not?"

"He was reaped two days ago."

Aemilia blinked, her mouth falling open in realization. "You mean he…he was the boy Tribute?"

Tear-filled eyes met her own. "Yes."

Aemilia blinked again, and then again, desperately trying to remember what the boy Tribute had looked like. She'd been so focused on the pictures her editor needed, though, that she hadn't bothered to pay much attention to her subjects - not really. She'd taken no time to study them.

But, she vaguely remembered the blond boy who'd been standing on the stage, looking pale like his father did now, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Her own throat felt suddenly dry.

"What…what an honor," she managed at last.

The baker looked like she'd struck him, and Aemilia almost took a step back. That was what she was supposed to say, wasn't it? Being reaped was an honor. Certainly, it was difficult, but the families were proud. Shouldn't those words have been a comfort?

"Please leave." The baker's voice was strained.

"I-"

"Please, just go."

Ducking her head, Aemilia took her cake from the counter and hurried out the door, the bell jangling loudly with her hasty departure, but she barely heard it. Feeling a strange, empty ache in her chest, she stopped in the middle of the street and turned around to stare at the bakery, her eyes finding the faded sign hanging above the porch.

_Mellark's Bakery._

Mellark. Not Meadowlark. Mellark.

The boy…he was the _youngest_ Mellark, the baker had said.

She…she couldn't remember his first name. She hadn't been paying close enough attention when Effie Trinket had called him out of the crowd.

Aemilia looked down at the cake clutched in her hands.

It wasn't fair - someone who made such beautiful works of art should have been exempt from the Games. _Surely_ there was some sort of system in place to ensure that no one with such _talent_ would be reaped. (Well, last year, there had been a boy from Seven who said that he was a woodcarver. But he hadn't lasted long enough in the Games for them to showcase his work, so Aemilia had no way of knowing if he'd actually been any good.)

But the Mellark boy…

He definitely had talent. A great deal of it.

She couldn't help but wonder…how many like him had the Capitol reaped over the years? Was he the first? Or had there been…dozens? Hundreds?

Those were dangerous thoughts, she knew, and clutching the box a little tighter, she made her way quickly back to her rented room, her mind racing.

She had some savings set aside…maybe she could sponsor the boy. She wouldn't be able to get him much, but…but something. Beyond that, she would just hope for the best, and…and enjoy her cake.

It was, after all, probably the last of its kind.

Swallowing hard, Aemilia unlocked the door of her small room and stepped inside, setting the cake down on her bedside table. She had a little more packing to do, and she needed to freshen up before she got on the train, but…her eyes fell to the cake once more.

Suddenly desperate to reclaim the lighter mood she'd enjoyed earlier, she opened the box and reached for the cake, plucking off one of the delicate petals and nibbling at it. As always, the sugar sculpture melted in her mouth.

But for the first time, the cake wasn't sweet.

It was bitter.

**Fin**

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)


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